


everyone here is alone!

by eggosandxmen



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Blood, Everyone is Dead, Found Family, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 15:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggosandxmen/pseuds/eggosandxmen
Summary: The afterlives of the civil servants before a living girl with nothing to lose came around.





	everyone here is alone!

**Author's Note:**

> The What I Know Now ensemble means the world to me!! So here they are. If there’s any interest I’ll continue the story, but this is just a fun piece I did to develop their characters!
> 
> NAMES:  
Presley Lind - the Jockey  
Norma Martinez- Miss Argentina  
Joan Ofark- the Toaster Woman  
Paul Freek- the Dead Groom  
Jason Bunt- the Exploding Man  
Carmen Michael- the Jumped-When-The-Light-Was-Red Dude

Presley woke up in an office that smelled like smoke and was painted a deep red. On instinct, she touched her hand to her head, finding her helmet cracked all the way across. She unclasped her helmet and touched her head again- it’s bloody, too bloody to be possible, too bloody for her to still be-

Breathing.

She wasn’t breathing.

“Oh, _fuck_!” 

She jumped up, knowing her heart should be pounding, knowing she should be sweating and breathing fast and knowing she’s doing none of those things.

It worked.

She’s dead.

When she had first created her plan, it was a backup in her mind- her last resort. Never whip a thoroughbred. She knew that. She knew that and she did it anyway because she couldn’t handle the pressure anymore and-

God, what were her parents thinking? That it was an accident, probably. That she hadn’t meant to. Maybe they’re putting on a show of grief for their work friends.

She pushed down the anger brewing in her gut at the thought of that and stood up to look around. She had awoke sitting on a chair in front of a large desk, and she moved to a mirror in the back of the room, looking at herself in shock.

She was bright pink, because apparently that’s something that happens when you die, and there was blood trickling down the side of her face, dripping onto her uniform. Her mother would hate that. Her mother couldn’t hate anything to her anymore, because Presley was dead. She’s dead. She died.

A loud bang sounded out from behind her.

Presley whipped around to find a woman with a beehive hairdo smiling at her with far too many teeth, her blood red suit pressed and ironed to a T, appeared from apparently nowhere. A large slash against her throat ruined the image of the perfect businesswoman, as did the cigarette between two of her fingers, and Presley was immediately reminded of angry showrunners when she competed, who didn’t want a hair out of place or a toe out of line. 

She straightened up, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her crop (still there, for some reason) to fidget with as she did her best to hold out under this woman’s fake smile.

“My name is Juno. I am here to help you adjust from life to the infinite abyss known as the Netherworld.” The woman- Juno- said it like she had given the speech a million times. “As a suicide, you are a special case- that’s why you’re here, rather than in a waiting room.”

She walked behind the desk and a bundle of papers materialized in her arms, which she set down with a loud slam against the desk. “You’ll be working from henceforth as a civil servant in order to repay the debts you carry from life-“

“I’m fifteen!” Presley replied before she can stop herself. “I don’t have any debts-“

Juno held up a hand, taking a drag from her cigarette and rolling her eyes. “You killed yourself.”

“I know that, but I don’t understand-“

“You took your own life. In order to repay the debt for taking it, you’ll be working as a postal girl for the Netherworld Registration Office for the next 6,234 years.”

She shoved the stack of papers in Presley’s direction and spoke again, her voice going cold. “This is not optional.”

A pen materialized from nowhere in Presley’s hand and the chair behind her scraped forward, pushing her into it and stopping directly in front of the desk. Juno stood up.

“Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.” 

And with that, she was gone in a puff of smoke.

Presley looked at her hands, then back at the papers. She should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.

Fighting back tears, she started to sign.

When she was finished signing, hours or days later (none of the clocks seemed to work right), a door materialized in the wall behind her. Presley walked through it and into another office, dozens of dead people scurrying around with bundles of papers in their arms. She kept walking until she found a counter with a closed window that read HELP, ringing the bell on the counter once. 

The window opened to reveal a woman with bright green skin and a beauty pageant sash across her chest. She took one look out her window and got up, opening the door from her side of the counter and marching up to her. 

The woman cupped Presley’s cheek in her hand, wiping a little blood off of Presley’s temple, and spoke for the first time. “This cannot be right. You are too young. You are much too young. What are you doing here?”

“I have- work. Juno said I have to work.” 

Presley made herself pull away from the woman’s touch- it was warmer than a dead person should feel, and by all accounts she was freezing cold, but she couldn’t let the woman know that. The first thing her mother taught her was how to look professional in front of people with authority, and if she hadn’t been touched by another person in god knows how long, since she got to that office in the first place? Well, this woman doesn’t need to know that, either.

The woman’s eyes widened and she dropped her hand. “You are working?”

“That’s what Juno said.”

“You- you are a civil servant?” The woman turned away from Presley, running a hand through her hair. “You are- how old were you?”

“Fifteen,” Presley replied, pulling her crop out to hold tightly so she wouldn’t do something stupid like cry. “Almost sixteen.”

The woman turned back to her, face upset but not pitying. She held up her wrists for Presley to see two deep gashes along them, the red dark against her skin. “I was twenty-six.” 

Presley nodded- was this a thing people in the Netherworld do? Exchange death times?- and shifted her feet. “I’m supposed to take your mail?”

“Ay!” The woman slapped herself upside the head. “I almost forgot!”

She took a small stack of letters from her desk and passed them to Presley, placing her other hand on her hip. “The letter at the bottom is across town. Save it for last. My name is Norma- when you finish, you come back to this building, go down three streets, take a right, enter the first building you see and tell them you know me. They’ll let you into the apartment you’ll be staying in.”

Presley nodded again, her head spinning with that much information, and Norma returned the gesture before sitting down at her desk, beginning to expertly scribble out documents from a pile that was even taller than Presley’s full height. 

-

The bike they had given her was slightly rusty, and pedaling across the entire town to deliver papers was hard work. Even though she was dead, she could still apparently feel exhaustion, because by the time she finished her last delivery, she was cranky and bone tired. The people she had given the letters to looked at her like she was scum, something they had to deal with- a servant. It was a miracle she even made it to the right building instead of passing out right on the street or getting into a fight she couldn't win.

The man in the waiting room of the apartment building (bright blue, his veins visible- must’ve drowned. Presley didn’t like how easily she knew that.) gave her a funny look when she asked for Norma, handing her a key. “Another one? How many people can that woman fit in one apartment?”

Presley shrugged, not sure what he meant, and he shrugged back, though not in a mocking manner. “Up the stairs, the second door on the right.”

Presley followed his instructions and unlocked the apartment door, walking in carefully. It was a one room deal, a single cot tucked in the corner, a couch, and half of a kitchen taking up most of the place. All the lights were off, the place a controlled mess, and she’s about to utterly collapse on the couch when she noticed movement in the corner of her eye.

And then there was a bat swinging at her at full speed.

Presley screamed, covering her head with her arms, and the bat narrowly missed her, hitting the wall instead. She slammed the light switch on, moving away and looking up at her would-be attacker.

It was a woman, brandishing the bat like a major-league player. The woman’s hair stuck up at all ends, literally sparking, eyes much too wide and bloodshot. Electrocution. 

Presley moved backward, against the wall, as the woman’s eyes widened even further. 

“Who the hell are you?” She brandished the best again and Presley flinched, tucking her hands against her chest.

“I’m Presley- Norma said- she said-“

“Oh, shit. You’re the new kid.” The woman dropped her bat, going to help Presley stand up. Though still mistrustful, she took the hand offered gratefully- her legs were beginning to give out. “Norma said you were coming, we just didn’t know who you were. Sorry about that.”

“We?”

A door on the left wall- presumably to the bathroom- slammed open to reveal a grey-skinned man in overalls and a flannel, grinning at them with teeth half-missing. A stick of dynamite stuck out of his chest pocket. Probably an explosion gone wrong that got him stuck here. “Joanie, are we safe?”

“Don’t you Joanie me, Jason Bunt- ‘Oh, no, honey, you can take the bat this time, me and Paul’ll go in the bathroom-‘“ Joanie threw up her hands, looking less annoyed than she sounded, though she still rolled her eyes.

Another man came out of the room- tall, wearing a bloody suit, a meat cleaver stuck in his head. “I did it last time!”

“Last time was when Carmen moved in!” Joanie- Joan?- threw up her hands again, directing her next words to the door. “You can come out too, you idiot!”

“I’m gay!” The voice from the bathroom was obviously attempting not to laugh. “Hey? Come out? Get it?”

“Ah, so funny.” Joan rolled her eyes.

Yet another man walked into the room, skin bright green, cracked helmet and torn skydiving suit showing his way to the grave. He grinned at Joan, pressing a kiss to her cheek and waving at Presley. “Hi! I’m Carmen, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Presley.” She stood up fully, pulling her hand roughly from Joan’s grip. “What’s going on?”

“Norm didn’t have time to explain?” Jason sat down on the couch and Joan joined him, leaning on his chest like that was something they just did. Presley couldn’t remember the last time her parents had touched each other, even in a casual setting. The man with the cleaver in his head- Paul, she remembered- joined them, wrapping an arm around them both. Jason spoke up again. “So, you’re a servant, right?”

Presley nodded.

“So, only higher-ups- essentially the naturally-dead people or servants who have been here forever- get apartments in the Netherworld. Everyone else usually has to sleep at their desks or outside if you’re a non-office worker. Norma, because she is an absolute sucker, lets us stay in her apartment, and I guess now you are too. You can take the couch, we have a spare blanket and we all share the bed anyway.”

There again was something weird- there were four of them, and even if Joan (the only woman) was dating one of them, wouldn’t that make things awkward to split a bed four ways? Paul laughed at the confusion present on Presley’s face. “Don’t worry, kid, the three of us are dating, and Carmen’s used to being a fourth wheel anyway.”

Carmen stuck his tongue out at Paul before seeming to remember something. “Shit, you’ve been working all day, right? Jesus, guys, get off the couch, it’s late, we have to let her sleep-“

The others moved immediately, Joan going to the closet and pulling out a large blanket, passing it to Presley. “We’ll be moving around, alright? Just try your best to tune it out. You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

Presley took the blanket and the other people had the decency to turn around and busy themselves in order to let her take off her helmet and jacket- if she was stuck in her show outfit for all of eternity, she might as well try to get comfortable- and tuck herself under the blanket, screwing her eyes shut. 

It was noisy- Joan was clearly attempting to cook, soft clanging of forks and knives and the smell of mildly burnt chicken filling the apartment, while Jason snored in the cot and Carmen and Paul chatted softly- but in a way that was comforting, much more human than Presley’s house, with its strangling silence and her parents rattling around like coins in a jar, only occasionally bumping into each other. 

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but when Joan shook her awake to get her to eat something it was fully dark outside and Norma sat at the kitchen table, fork halfway in her mouth and paperwork still covering the table. “She just got home,” Joan explained as Presley sat up, “and the woman has never known when to take a break.”

Presley finished as Norma began to swear softly at Joan in what Presley thought might be Spanish, the two of them arguing good-naturedly under their breaths as the three men slept and Presley went back under her blanket. After that, she didn’t wake until dawn.


End file.
